


Perfection

by Nununununu



Category: Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, Don't copy to another site, Falling In Love, Feelings Realization, First Meetings, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Misunderstandings, Recovery, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:07:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27234718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nununununu/pseuds/Nununununu
Summary: Bereaved of his old cruel husband, Alin can't help but fear the new King will prove just as unkind.As Autumn deepens, he comes to discover that he's wrong.
Relationships: New King/His Cruel Older Brother's Widowed Husband, Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 16
Kudos: 58
Collections: Shipoween 2020 - The Halloween Ship Exchange!





	Perfection

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hyx_Sydin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyx_Sydin/gifts).



> Includes non-graphic and non-detailed references to abuse by the old King, and some negative self-image on the husband's part.
> 
> (Summary edited slightly 19.11)

He can do this.

He _will_ do this. He has to.

Alin’s hair and clothes are styled with careful precision. His face is as free of expression as he can make it, without courting accusations of frigidity or haughtiness (his husband always accused him of both of those anyway). He waits with his head raised, eyes ahead, until he hears his name read out and his title – neutrally, when before it was always used as an insult – and then it is time.

It is time.

The great double doors are opened to allow him to enter the massive hall. Rows of courtiers line either side of the long strip of carpet supplicants must walk down the length of to get to the throne. All eyes are on him.

His breath trembles; his heart shrinks. He keeps his chin up, and walks.

The first time he must kneel he manages all but flawlessly, head bowed and gaze upon the carpet, and when there is no objection – although he waits for it, almost longer than he should – he rises to his feet a margin more easily and proceeds to where tradition demands he must kneel again.

The third time, he is in front of the great golden throne upon its dais. Upon that throne, sits the new King.

Alin doesn’t dare look at him. Doesn’t dare rise up without permission; doesn’t dare speak; can hardly remember to even breathe. Inside, he tells himself that he is ice. That he is frozen over, frozen so deep that it will take more than mere words or weapons to make him crack.

It is a lie, but it’s all he’s had for years to console himself with.

He is the widowed husband of the old King, the cruel King, the one this younger brother came back from abroad to usurp. The old King lies now in the royal burial chamber to the north of the palace, as if his younger brother did not order his head upon the block.

What this new King will do to his older brother’s cast off goods does not bear contemplating. The old King had already tired of Alin long before Stefan took up arms against his own family.

“Rise,” A voice says – deep yet not stern, with a tone to it that’s almost –

No. No. Alin is simply wishing. Hoping, when he should be dreading, fool that he is. After all, his husband had also seemed kind at first.

Reminding himself that he is frozen inside, he gets to his feet.

“Look at me,” King Stefan continues, “Please.”

What?

Shaking harder, Alin curls his fingers loosely so not to make his hands into fists. Chews the inside of his cheek just a little – and looks.

The man on the throne is not his older brother. Stefan is older than Alin, true, with salt-and-pepper in his beard and hair. The crown he wears is not his brother’s either, but is simpler, lighter, a plain circle of gold upon his brow. His clothes made of good material and as well cut as would befit a ruler, but without adornment.

He holds no weapon in his hand. The guards are posted at the great double doors to the hall; that is it. No others lurk behind the new King; none circle around Alin to ensure he does as commanded.

He always did as commanded – not at first, but then, once his mistake was made irrefutably clear to him, ever after – but his husband would ensure he was so – encouraged – regardless.

King Stefan is not looking at Alin in the way his husband did. The expression on King Stefan’s face is –

No. It can’t be.

“I have heard much about you,” The new King informs Alin.

Alin is well-aware of the rumours; his husband used to enjoy listing them to him in detail.

“I can only apologise, my lord,” He lowers his head. His voice emerges quieter than he intends; he knows full well the error of showing signs of weakness. A fine line between that and being considered too bold.

This is when King Stefan says something entirely unexpected.

“I look forward to getting to know you better,” He states, as if he does not consider Alin to be the useless detritus leftover from his older brother’s iron-fisted rule.

_Why?_ Alin thinks rather desperately, even as his heart sinks.

-

Stefan is again to surprise him in the weeks that follow – not once more, but many times.

“It goes without saying – or one would hope that it would do – but I am not my brother,” He says, as he treads the circumference of the Autumn-touched palace grounds with Alin as if they were in any way equals, that one pair of guards at a distance and not appearing to particularly keep an eye on Alin.

It is all very strange. Stefan is a calm, steady presence, and requested – requested! – early on that Alin not even think of him as ‘King’, a title he explains he is still growing accustomed to himself.

“I can be myself with you, I hope,” He’d said to Alin back then as if confiding, and grinned.

It does something to Alin’s insides, that grin. It makes them feel as if they are not ice, but warm. He should not permit it, he should force his awareness of it away, but Stefan has taken to inviting Alin to walk with him ever since discovering that his older brother only allowed his husband the space of his solitary chamber, when not obliged to attend court, and an equally solitary window to look out at the world from.

Alin has gazed out longingly at the trees they walk under now for _years_. Their leaves are shaded in red, orange and gold now, a beautiful canopy through which he can catch glimpses of blue sky. The crisp crunch of them underfoot is just as mesmerising.

His life now is growing so unlike how it was before Alin can hardly trust in it, but it is difficult, so difficult, to remember how cautious he ought to still be. He wants to trust in Stefan, in this.

“I am certain I can distinguish between the two of you, my lord,” Alin therefore dares a little dryly, his heart beating hard as he warns himself that he’s gone too far; that he’s crossed a line he wasn’t supposed to.

“I’m very grateful to hear it,” Stefan simply laughs a little.

The sound of it melts even more of the ice inside Alin than that grin.

-

They go riding together.

Stefan has started requesting Alin’s company more and more often – for logic games or riddles on a rainy evening; for a play performed by a group of the courtiers he’s given the opportunity – the choice! – of joining in; for sneak visits down to the palace kitchens where Stefan proves to be genuinely adored by the staff and quite adept at begging a picnic for them both to take out to the gardens, where they get lost for more than an hour in the impressive hedge maze.

Just one time, Alin forces himself to turn down a request, in order to prove to himself that they are in fact veiled orders. The fact there is no repercussion is dizzying.

He starts to accept these offers of company more and more eagerly. He _wants_ to see Stefan and that’s – well.

It’s growing increasingly difficult to remind himself that this want could turn out to be dangerous.

For all they do together as Autumn deepens its hold on the land, it’s riding that Alin discovers he loves the most. He feels free – he feels _free_ – and Stefan doesn’t call after him, doesn’t command him back or send the pair of guards in chase. He just nudges his own steed into a gallop and catches up. They race out of the palace grounds that way, side by side, only stopping when they reach the cliffs beyond it that overlook the sea.

Alin has never seen the sea before. He was brought to the palace as a young boy and trained to act as a page before being selected by the old King; he slept with the palace dogs and in his earliest years had almost thought himself one of them.

The old King had thought less of him than he did those dogs. Alin didn’t have to guess at this; he’d been told.

Those memories hold little sway over him now. His hands no longer curl loosely; he doesn’t tremble and shake. He stands up tall because it comes naturally, rather than because he forces his back straight.

The sight of the sea spread out all the way to the horizon melts the very last of the ice inside Alin, as does the glimpse he gets of Stefan next to him. The breeze catches that salt-and-pepper hair, tossing strands over the new King’s forehead, but does nothing to hide the kindness in the dark eyes looking at him.

Kindness Alin can finally believe in without any doubt.

“It is wonderful to see you so happy,” Stefan is smiling, looking a little helpless about it. A rich depth of affection – Alin thrills to identify it – in his gaze.

He takes a deep, unfettered breath in, and reaches out to catch the hand Stefan holds out towards him.

“I am happy,” He agrees.


End file.
